Cyril seemed almost cheery as he unpacked the sandwiches, stuffed with thick crispy rashers of bacon. The Last Stop got most of its produce from the local farms, and my mouth watered in anticipation.
“So, Cyril, how did you like the ballet?”
He rolled his eyes. “It were all right if you like watching a bunch of blokes poncing about in their knickers.”
We sat at his kitchen table, and I gave him the lowdown on the exorbitant new rent for my store and how I might have to move.
“Aye, well, that’s why I bought this land outright. I’ll never be in debt to no one.”
“You sound like Eleanor now.” I knew he stubbornly insisted on paying for everything when he took Martha out for the evening, even though she was a very wealthy widow. It exasperated her to no end, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
I rubbed my forehead. I had a splitting headache, whether from worry or hunger, I couldn’t tell.
“Here. Make yerself useful. Finish this puzzle.” He threw the newspaper in front of me.
I looked up at him, openmouthed. Cyril never even let me see the crossword, let alone ask for my help. I wrestled with the clue while we munched on our sandwiches.
Furniture for some squirrels? Nine letters.
What the heck could that be? Tree house? The letters would fit, but a tree house wasn’t really furniture. Perhaps something to do with hoarding? Cup hoard?
Oh, jeez, Daisy. Not enough letters anyway.
I frowned as I picked up the last bacon crumb. I’d finished my lunch and still hadn’t figured it out. And my headache was even worse.
“All right. Enough o’ that.” Cyril whisked the newspaper away. “You’re mekking yerself barmy o’er it.”
He went into the living room and came back wheeling a cart with the dollhouse sitting on top. I could see he’d made good progress already. He’d created a new back panel, fixed the staircase, and repaired the rotted boards on the porch.
“Wow, this looks great, Cyril. Thanks!”
“We can rebuild it. We have the technology.”
“Yes, yes, let’s just get on with it.” I grinned and waved a hand at him, suddenly glad I’d asked Cyril to help. Joe was too preoccupied with his miniatures right now, plus he’d never finish in time for Claire’s birthday. I’d had the experience with my husband of projects at the house that mushroomed into giant undertakings when all I’d wanted was a new towel bar. Weeks later, there’d still be no towel bar, but a ripped-apart, unusable bathroom. Oh, it would all get done eventually, and be gorgeous in the end, per Joe’s exacting standards, but I didn’t have that kind of time.
Cyril was bare-bones practical. Plus he had a soft spot for Claire, too.
I set to work repairing the wallpaper, smoothing it out millimeter by millimeter and gluing it back into place. There was only one patch in a corner that I couldn’t fix and I decided I’d put a potted plant there.
I closed my eyes briefly, and thought I could still catch a hint of Sophie’s haunting floral scent, clinging to the dollhouse as it had to the paisley scarf.
While I cleaned, Cyril stained the double doors in preparation for installation on the porch. In companionable silence, we repaired the windows with new glass panes and before I knew it, a couple of hours had passed and the light was fading outside. Dusk was coming earlier these days.
I’d been so lost in the world of the dollhouse, I’d completely lost track of time.